


Fear in a Handful of Dust

by WhatsUpMeg



Category: Snowpiercer (2013)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-13
Updated: 2020-07-13
Packaged: 2021-03-04 22:41:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,311
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25204141
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhatsUpMeg/pseuds/WhatsUpMeg
Summary: “Winter kept us warm, coveringEarth in forgetful snow”Sometimes Audrey wished that she'd been covered in forgetful snow, rather than being condemned to circle the ice-covered globe in a 1001-car train. She was only alive due to Mr Wilford's benevolence, but sometimes it felt more like prolonged torture. Besides, there was only one person she felt truly indebted to; one person who had saved her life more times than she could count. She alternated between gratitude and contempt towards Curtis, but the love never really went away.
Relationships: Curtis Everett/Original Female Character(s)
Kudos: 4





	Fear in a Handful of Dust

_“A heap of broken images, where the sun beats,_

_And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief,_

_And the dry stone no sound of water. Only_

_There is shadow under this red rock,_

_(Come in under the shadow of this red rock),_

_And I will show you something different from either_

_Your shadow at morning striding behind you_

_Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you;_

_I will show you fear in a handful of dust.”_

_T.S. Eliot- The Waste Land_

“Look at that one,” one of the guards sneers, gesturing towards me and -before I can even begin to process what’s happening- clutching my arm and pulling me forwards. “I didn’t think there were any pretty ones back in this shithole.”

“This one’s a real princess,” another of them leers, lifting some of my hair with surprising gentleness and twisting it round his finger. “She’s kept her hair long and smooth, I don’t see any others like that,” he adds, casting a fleeting and ineffectual glance at those crowded before him. I’m not the only one with long hair, but my mouth is too dry for words to come out. “Aren’t you the little vain one,” he whispers into my ear, leaning impossibly close. I instinctively recoil, but there is no space to shrink back to, only a mass of large, strong limbs surrounding me and grasping me. The guards seem impossibly tall, and despite craning my neck as much as I can, trying to make eye contact with someone, anyone, in the crowd, I can barely see anyone but the guards surrounding me.

“She’s got reason to be,” the one squeezing on my arm adds, evidently having heard the not-so-quiet whisper. “She’s a real looker.” He speaks in a snarl, and I pull against his arm as hard as I can, struggling to get free. _I just want to go back into the crowd of anonymity, please please please,_ I will silently. I feel impossibly weak, weaker than I’ve ever felt, as my struggles go almost completely unnoticed by the men holding me with an iron grip.

There are about six of them, I think, though all rational parts of my brain feel dulled, and I’m only fully alive to the suffocating atmosphere of threat. I count silently, _one, two, three…_ anything to disconnect from this fear. It almost works, and for what feels like hours, but is in reality most likely a few seconds, I feel so dissociated that my senses become dulled; my eyes are bleary, there is a soft thudding in my ears blocking out the shouting surrounding me. This blissful momentary relief is violently shaken away as a guard grasps my jaw, twisting my face towards him. I meet his steely gaze, focusing all my willpower on looking even slightly less terrified than I feel. “I’ll bet you’re treated like a princess around here, aren’t you?” He releases his grip on my jaw, leaving it aching from his brief but violent hold, and grabs one of my hands, turning it over as if giving it a thorough inspection. I try to calm my breathing, while he presents my palm to the others, “very soft for someone in the tail, no?”

A previously unnoticed guard behind me guffaws, “so who’s the king of the tail people?” He grips my waist and pulls me toward him, putting a hand around my throat and using his index finger to move my jaw up, forcing me to face him. “I asked you a question, _who’s fucking you_?”

“Maybe they all get a go,” another of them sneers from behind me. “Maybe she’s not a princess, maybe she’s the resident whore.” He snakes a leg between mine, twisting against me.

I slam my eyes shut. _One, two three…_

“No no no, she’s definitely well looked after,” the one holding my throat counters, only now loosening his grip enough for me to break away and free my neck from his grip and struggle to take quick, shallow breaths. I struggle further, trying to free myself as much as I can, but there is still an unrelenting grip on my waist and arms.

“Why don’t you come with us and we can have a more… _intimate_ chat?” The one clutching my waist suggests. I look him in the face. He’s got blue eyes, like Curtis. No, not like Curtis. Not like him. This man’s eyes are steely, more grey than blue; and they’re _cold, unfeeling._ No, not like Curtis. The man’s fingers tighten around my waist, squeezing so hard I have to bite my lip to stop from screaming. All of them seem to be laughing now, and I feel myself getting pulled backwards; I’ve never felt so helpless in my life. Desperately, finally, I use all of my strength to fight against their grip. I lunge forwards, somehow managing to get free from their grip for just long enough to send myself plummeting to the ground. My body aches with the impact, but I don’t have time for that; I throw my arms ahead of me and crawl forwards. I don’t have a plan; I don’t know where I’m going; I just know that I need to get away. I rise to my feet and release a breath, finally feeling a degree of freedom- until a large hand wraps around my neck and pulls me backwards. Now I really can’t breathe. My senses go numb again, but in a torturous, terrifying way. I look back into the crowd facing me. I’m not surprised that no one is trying to help me, I didn’t expect it, and yet somehow, I’m hurt by a piercing sense of abandonment.

I look to the bewildered, helpless faces in front of me. They all seem inhuman somehow. These are the people I’ve lived with for my entire time on this train -almost half of my life- and yet I’m unable to recognise any of their faces; they’re nothing but a mass of wide eyes and shrivelled mouths on hollow faces. Everything feels unreal - _I_ feel unreal - everything except the vice-like grip on my throat blocking my breathing. That’s when I see him, pushing his way through the crowd; seemingly despite a lot of resistance. I can see he’s getting pushed back, pulled back, by anyone brave enough to defy him. Suddenly the man who’d always seemed so impossibly strong, so _invincible -_ the king of the tail section if we had one- seems just as helpless as I’d always felt. I can’t hear, but I can see that he’s shouting something, as are those who are preventing him from rushing forward. It is in this exact moment, when my eyes meet his for just a brief moment- which is all it takes- that I realise for the first time the extent of our powerlessness. Despite everything, I’ve always had faith that Curtis wasn’t powerless; that no matter the power of Wilford, or the guards he sent, that Curtis would always prevail. I know now that that is impossible- a foolish fancy I had conjured up throughout my years on the train, I suppose. In this moment I understand that Curtis cannot save me, and that if he attempts to, he will die.

I shake my head at him, frantically, trying to convey everything, to make him stop, sit down with everyone else, but everything is blurred - is spinning- and I’m unsure if my gesture could even be recognised as a shake of the head. The grip around my throat loosens, drops, but is soon replaced by hands on my waist or hips or arms, I don’t know, I only know it hurts and it feels like I’m being grabbed everywhere, and maybe I am.

_Fuck._

_Fuck fuck fuck._

I’m almost face to face with Curtis. I don’t know how he’s gotten so close, but how could I have doubted him? He always gets what he wants, and now he’s in front of me, almost directly in front of me. For a split, blissful second, I think that he’s going to rescue me. I violently blink back tears as I realise that is impossible, and the only thing he could accomplish by rushing forward like this is his own death. But no. Curtis won’t die, Curtis _can’t_ die. That feels like a fact. Although I’m aware of the danger, it has always seemed like an unalterable fact that Curtis would be okay. Perhaps the guards feel the same way, as they don’t shoot him, or even hit him. They seem to almost freeze as he rushes at them; their grip on me tightens, but that’s all. I stop struggling against them, now focusing all my attention on appearing as calm as possible. I convince myself that I no longer care what happens to me, as long as he is alright.

He raises his arms up in what looks like a sign of surrender, but that can’t be it. He’s saying something, but I struggle to hear. _Why can’t I hear? Have I gone deaf? Does it even matter?_ There’s a ringing in my ears, which is almost all I can focus on. “Just let her go,” I think he says. _I’m not deaf_ , is the selfish, first thought that races to my head.

“So this is who’s been looking after you, eh?” one of them asks, nudging me painfully. Curtis continues to move forward now, but slowly, cautiously, as if walking a tightrope. I’ve so rarely seen him like this; it’s not his nature to move slowly and cautiously. He’s a man of definite, precise action; he does everything swiftly and decisively. The way he’s moving now, he doesn’t know what he’s doing, there’s no plan. The man who nudged me faces Curtis now, “don’t worry, we’ll look after her now.” He pulls off my coat, chucking it at Curtis, who catches it and grips it tightly. “You can even keep that to remember her by. Don’t say we’re not generous.”

Everything seems to happen at once. The crowd are shouting, some are rushing forwards. Curtis lunges at the guards surrounding me, but is struck on the head with a baton, again and again and again. I scream “stop”- or I think I do. I scream something that in my head is supposed to be stop, but comes out as an unintelligible feral scream. The blood is gushing from his head, but they don’t stop. The shouts of the crowd get louder, more are rushing forward. There is a shot. I hadn’t even noticed any guns, but there’s a shot. And screaming. More screaming. Some of it is my own. There’s another shot. There’s blood. Everywhere. There’s blood on my arm, I don’t even know if it’s mine. It’s crimson and cloying and-

I’m pulled back. I shout Curtis’ name, but I can no longer see him. The last I saw he was lying on the ground in a pool of his own blood. I squeeze my eyes shut so tightly it hurts, and try not to think about that- but my temples throb with the effort. A gate closes in front of me, and I’m dragged into a small room with grey walls, roof and floor. I shouldn’t feel so claustrophobic; I’m used to being constantly surrounded by people. I’m also used to threats; mental and physical. But nothing like this. I’m pushed into a corner. I’m no longer being held but I don’t run, only let my knees give way and my body slip to the ground. I know the door is locked, and I feel that all strength has left my body. There is something about these guards, this uniformed threat, that makes all other struggles I’ve ever been through seem like nothing.

There’s a banging on the wall behind me, loud and insistent. I also hear shouting, but it’s hazy. It takes me longer than it should to realise that the sounds are from the tail section, that I haven’t been taken far away. Maybe I’ll get to go back. Most would call me crazy, especially the others in the tail, who claim they would do anything to get out. But I don’t know. There’s something about familiarity, even the ghastly kind. For all the tortures of the tail, it also contains everything I care about in the world. I raise my fist and beat it against the wall, as hard as I can, desperate to be heard.

The guards laugh, but I no longer care how foolish or afraid I look, or am, because I’m aware, with everything inside me, that it’s Curtis at the other side of the wall. It’s his fists, and his shouts that I hear. He’s alive, and so am I. I can barely speak; my throat is aching- but I call his name with all the effort I can muster. One of the guards steps forward- the one with the icy grey eyes. I hear another loud thud on the wall, this one much louder and even more urgent than the previous ones.

I hear my name, “Audrey.” It’s definitely Curtis, like I knew it was. I can’t help smiling, hearing his voice calling my name- but before I can truly feel any relief, I’m dragged forwards by my ankles and I let out a piercing scream, causing my throat to ache more than I ever thought it could. 

Sometimes I think that none of this is real; that there is no Snowpiercer, no remnants of humanity, but that we’re in one of the circles of hell, condemned to go round and round for eternity. I find a kind of comfort in that thought- that this isn’t real life, that there _is_ no real life, and so none of this matters. At this moment, it’s the only comfort I can find in anything.


End file.
